The fog refused to lift.
Darian and his company moved slowly now, navigating through the sunken pathways of Blackwood Marsh. Water rose to their knees, fetid and cold, and every step forward felt like wading through old bones. Silence hung in the air, thick as the mist, broken only by the occasional creak of ancient trees—and whispers.
Whispers that called his name.
"Darian..."
At first, he ignored them. But as they pressed on, the voices grew louder, more distinct, like a chorus from the grave.
"Come to us… flameborn… oathbreaker…"
He paused at the edge of a clearing, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Sareth stepped beside him. "You hear it too?"
He nodded. "They know I'm here."
Kaelin, scanning the shadows behind them, spat into the water. "Maybe they want you to finish what you started."
Darian didn't reply.
Ahead, the marsh opened into a wide basin. And there it stood—the Hollow Throne.
